


A Coldness Shaped Like Me

by argelfraster_z



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Death Threats, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Lovers, Forgiveness, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Occasional fluff, erik totally made meg's masquerade costume and you can't take that from me, kidnapping/murder (only the canon stuff dw), pretty ooc Meg, she’s still cool tho don’t worry, trigger warnings will be in the notes but there won’t be anything extreme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27708926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argelfraster_z/pseuds/argelfraster_z
Summary: Meg has been keeping Erik alive for as long as she can remember. But survival doesn’t mean friendship, especially once Christine and her young Vicomte get involved.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Meg Giry, Erik | Phantom of the Opera & Madame Giry, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Meg Giry, Madame Giry & Meg Giry, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 9
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look at me, I’m not posting oneshots for once!! This will probably be between 5-10 chapters, if all goes according to plan, and it’ll update… whenever I have time/motivation. :) Set in the ALW timeline with a slight twist; I know Meg is pretty far from her original interpretation, but it could be canon if you really think about it. The title is shamelessly stolen from AJJ’s song “A Big Day for Grimley.”
> 
> Music: Dissolve by Absofacto
> 
> Enjoy!

He doesn’t even look up when she comes in anymore. He doesn’t need to, no one else knows of him or his home, no one else could even get close to it without being killed, or worse. No one but this strange ballet girl, whom he cannot stand but who has kept him alive, year after year. 

He does not understand it, not at all. He has asked before, asked if her mother put her up to it, if she lost some kind of bet and now must deal with the rat in the cellars, but she has struck down all of his theories. In one fit of frustration, he had asked if she loved him.

She had laughed in his face. 

On this particular day, he can feel her frustration from the second she walks in the door, but chooses to ignore it, instead continuing to scribble indecipherable notes onto cheap, stolen paper. He knows why she is frustrated. It’s because of the girl with whom he speaks, the singer, his student. It’s because of Christine. 

The girl, the little Giry, doesn’t like it, the way they talk. The way Erik teaches her. He does not know what the little Giry is so afraid of. But it is not his problem, what the ballerina thinks of him, of his time with Christine. She may think whatever she likes. 

Bags of what is probably food hit the counter, with more force than is necessary, and a chair scrapes as the little Giry takes a seat. He braces himself against the onslaught. If only she would leave him alone for once! Perhaps then he could finish his opera. 

“Would you care to tell me what’s going on?” she asks, syllables clipped and biting. He doesn’t reply. “Christine has been missing for almost ten hours, Erik,” she says, cold. “And something tells me you know of her whereabouts.” 

It is not the first time they have clashed over Christine. Meg was there before the young soprano was, she has seen their entire relationship evolve, and she is seriously concerned. There is more than she is being told, she knows, and though she rarely presses Erik, or Christine, for that matter, for the details, it bothers her to no end, the way they meet. The way he’s tricking her, perhaps unintentionally. The way he’s never revealed his face to her, even with his mask on. Or hasn’t, until this night. 

But she has allowed it, for Christine has progressed, quite clearly, her career advancing even more quickly than she had hoped for. And her triumph, the previous night… Meg had hardly been able to believe it. She had been so proud. So proud that she forgot to think anything was odd when she disappeared shortly after. When she hadn’t come back. 

It’s close to 7 a.m. now, and instead of being asleep, as she should be after such a performance, she’s been running after Christine—and then Erik—all night. His unpredictability annoys her to no end. She’s even brought him the various foods he had requested the last time she had come, though part of her wanted to let him go hungry for a few days, simply out of spite.

He’s not going to answer her, she realizes, and stands, walking quickly over to the piano and snatching the page he is working on from the stand. 

“Where is Christine?” she asks, keeping her tone as strict as possible. It’s terrifying to act as though she has this much control over him, but in a way, she does; two words from her and a mob would be on his doorstep. Besides, she’s learned he responds better to clear, short-winded questions spoken with authority. 

He stands, towering over her, but she keeps a tight grip on the paper, and on her composure. Or, at least, she hopes it looks that way. 

“She’s asleep,” he says casually, glaring at her. She runs a hand over her face. It was what she had expected, of course, but hearing it from his own disgusting lips makes it far more real, and far more frustrating. This is more than she wants to deal with right now. 

“For  _ heaven’s _ sake, Erik,” she mutters. “Where?” 

“She’s perfectly safe,” he says, making a grab for the paper in a movement that would’ve looked extremely coordinated, had she not pulled it out of his reach. She stares into his glass-blue eyes, daring him to make another move. 

Her stare terrifies him. There is a constant half-mind that wants to ignore her, especially so tonight, but the strength to do so always eludes him once he is being glared at so intensely. He will tell her, but not now. He enjoys seeing how far she will go. 

“And what concern is it of yours?” he asks, smiling to himself but wincing slightly as her small fingers clench on the edge of the page of music. 

“Some of us have friends in this opera, Erik,” she says, and, well, if she was trying to find a nerve, she has. “Some of us look out for each other, and not only for ourselves.” His mind argues with her, for has he not looked out for his pupil, has he not done everything in his power to help her progress, put her in the lead roles, make her a shining star that all of Paris will admire? Tonight, her debut, her triumph, is only the first step. It will be easy, with her voice and her face, to rise through the ranks quickly. It will be harder to make sure she doesn’t forget about him as soon as everyone hears her, as soon as everyone praises her voice as much as he does. 

He worries for her, should she be given too much success too quickly, he worries that she will neglect her training, will believe she can take on the world too early. He worries for her more than he lets her know. 

But for now, there are larger problems at hand, and she is holding his score as if it were nothing more than scrap paper, which it was, before he wrote upon it and made it more valuable than the little Giry could ever imagine.

“She is by the lake,” he says simply, and it doesn’t surprise her in the least. It is the only space of his where she is not allowed to go, and though she suspects she knows the way there, she hasn’t tried to find it. Yet. She only knows of this house, which she suspects is much more practical than whatever he has constructed elsewhere. He was always over-theatrical, and she wouldn’t put it past him to have some kind of dramatic lair full of candles somewhere. The constant necessity for flair gets on her nerves. Really, she thinks, remembering the few details she has gleaned of his alternate home, who needs two different pianos?

“You’re going to return her,” she tells him, and he smiles condescending. 

“It’s far too early,” he says matter-of-factly, as if her demand were something up for debate, which it isn’t. “Erik wouldn’t want to wake her up.”

“Yes, it would be rather rude, wouldn’t it?” she says. “And it would also be rather rude to keep her here, against her will, while the entire opera house will be in a full panic if she’s not back very, very soon.”

“She is here of her own will,  _ Miss Giry _ ,” he says, and she doesn’t believe a word of it, not really. “And as for a panic, Erik is quite sure he doesn't know what you’re talking about. The new management seems… very calm,” he chuckles, “very calm indeed. And intelligent, and level-headed, and—”

“I didn’t come here so you could insult the management,” she says, exasperated. “I came here so you could release Christine, before I send the police down here to get her themselves. Or Raoul,” she finishes, knowing it’s a name he now despises, and, she hopes, fears. She is not used to threatening him. Annoying, yes, ignoring, certainly, but threatening? Never. She is not in a position to do such things, except that now, strangely, she is, and that on its own is very odd to her. Erik doesn’t seem like the kind of man who would let himself be so easily controlled, especially by someone like her. But these are unusual circumstances, tensions are high, and her own patience is running out. 

“And how does the little Giry suggest Erik should do that?” he inquires calmly, and she takes a deep breath, scanning the page and handing it back to him. 

“Go over there, and play this,” she says, trying to keep the biting annoyance from her voice, and probably failing. Despite what most people think, she can read music, and whatever he’s written looks like a suitable alarm clock. “Then, bring her up to the opera house, to my mother. We’ll handle everything from there.” He looks like he’s going to insist on causing more trouble, but then visibly reconsiders. Brushing off his coat, though it’s already perfectly clean, he makes his way towards the door. “Don’t do anything dramatic,” she adds on, and he turns, putting a hand over his chest in mock offense.

“Erik wouldn’t dare,” he replies, and it infuriates her. She grabs his arm, pulling him back towards her, and it crosses her mind that this might be the first time she’s touched him, and he’s freezing cold. It does nothing to cool her anger.

“You should be thanking me,  _ Angel _ ,” she says, nearly hissing on the last word, fully aware of the deception he uses with her friend. It feels good, to have power over him. “I’ll play the fool for you for now, but if anything strange starts happening between you two, I have no qualms about telling her that her mysterious masked teacher is just a lonely musician with no stable income.” 

“Don’t worry,” he says casually, pulling his arm away, and she lets him. “Erik will be… good.” She doesn’t like the way he says the word, doesn’t like the unknown implications it clearly holds. In fact, she doesn’t like anything about him.

But she lets him go, empties the bags of food, some bought, some stolen, onto the counter, and starts putting them away, her anger draining little by little. She doesn’t want their relationship to be like this. It was easier in the beginning, when he didn’t go out of his way to annoy her, to try to lure her now-best friend into what was surely some cruel trap. There was a time when they were almost what one could call friends, she remembers, when they really and truly tolerated each other, and she can’t tell whether or not she misses it. 

Of course, there’s no way of telling whether he felt the same way back then. It could just as easily be that he was simply less vile before stumbling upon a ridiculous amount of power, hidden somewhere under the opera and in the weak minds of the management. 

It feels like she barely knows him anymore, she thinks. It’s not about surviving now, she can tell, it’s about dominating, the new management, the productions, anything he can. What’s worse, it seems to be working. She hates him, to be sure, but she also worries for him, she cares about his life, or why else would she be keeping him alive, even now? She hates him, she tells herself, yes, she does. But she also hates threatening him, because one day, he’ll realize her threats are only empty. Or, worse, she’ll have to prove that they aren’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay the first chapter is up!! And the next one is in (very slow) progress... I hope you enjoyed it! I can't force you to comment but I'd really appreciate it! :)
> 
> A


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me so long! I’ve worked a lot on upcoming chapters so hopefully I’ll update faster from now on :) Thank you so much to those of you leaving comments/kudos, and a huge huge thank you to ofserien for beta-ing this!!
> 
> Music: Oh Ms Believer by Twenty One Pilots
> 
> Enjoy!

It is painfully easy to play the fool, even with her own mother. 

Surprisingly, Erik had done as she had asked, and when she had returned to the surface without seeing him, pretending she had simply missed her alarm, she found Christine and her mother together, talking very quickly and very quietly in her dressing room. Her mother had stopped immediately when she had walked in, and insisted that Christine be returned home. 

It annoys her, the way her mother assumes she knows nothing, but at the same time, it works to her advantage. It is proof that whatever she is doing, she is doing it right. She’ll talk to Christine later, she promises herself while trying to block out the incessant chatter of the managers. She’ll get some answers and see if they match up with anything Erik told her. And then she’ll assess, and she’ll go from there. 

When her mother tells them of Christine’s return, the managers work themselves into a frenzy, hurling out questions which they do their best to answer until her mother pulls out a note, which Firmin —she has made it a point to learn their names, even if she never uses them—grabs and reads aloud. 

“Gentlemen,” he starts, his brow furrowing, “I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature detailing how my theater is to be run.” He continues, becoming more agitated the further he reads, and she watches as everyone’s faces morph between annoyance, anger, fear. The room erupts into chaos as soon as he finishes, and though she lets herself voice concern for Christine as it seems only natural that she would do so, she knows that this is probably what Erik wants. For them to turn on each other. For no one to trust anyone. What’s worse, it seems to be working. 

While they are all praising Carlotta, she wonders if he’ll ever give up, what it would take for him to stop this new crusade against all of them. He knows more about the opera than any of them, even her, and it scares her to think about the kind of damage he could probably cause under the guise of helping Christine. A disaster beyond their imagination… she doesn’t doubt it. But still, intervention isn’t an option, not when she knows next to nothing of his final intentions, towards the opera, towards Christine. 

It is one of the few rules Meg made for herself when she first started whatever tedious relationship with Erik that they now have: don’t interfere. Not with his business, not with what people say about him. Spread rumors if you have to, but make sure the rumors are never the truth. And she has followed that rule, quite faithfully. What he does to the poor managers is none of her concern. 

But it is more than the managers, now, it is more than money, more than petty complaints about costumes or musicians. These are people’s lives he is playing with, it is an overreach of power he doesn’t really hold. Something has to be done. 

  
  


When he enters, the little Giry is already there, seated at his table. He bites his tongue to keep from snapping at her, walking over to stand by the piano; Erik only wants a little peace and quiet after the disastrous events of the morning, but it seems even this is being denied. 

“Erik has returned Christine,” he says simply, his voice threatening to break over her name, the image of her face, so contorted with terror, still fresh in his tortured mind. That picture of her hasn’t left his head. He still hears her screaming, hears himself screaming, though the voice in his head can hardly be recognized as his own. He hates that voice. “He doesn’t know what more the little Giry can want from him.” 

“I wanted to talk,” she replies, her voice next to icy as she stands from the table, “about those notes you’ve been sending the managers. About your demands and ‘disaster beyond our imagination.’” 

Even the little Giry, whom he trusts most with his secrets, has not seen his horrid face. And now one has, and she will probably tell the boy, that pathetic Vicomte, who will then tell the managers, who will then tell all of Paris, or Carlotta... he doesn’t know which would be worse. And then he will be ruined. Ruined! He slams his fist on the top of the piano in frustration. If he isn’t deserving of Christine’s kindness, her compassion, then none of them are. No one in all of Paris is worthy enough to hear her voice. 

She is still talking, he realizes, and tries to focus his attention on her words, though it wants to wander. 

“Have you even heard a word of what I’ve been saying?” Her dark eyes catch his gaze, and he turns away, fighting the urge to sit down on the piano bench and cry for the loss of that ignorant, innocent bliss that had been holding everything together. The lie that had kept his angel true to him. 

“Erik, are you alright?” Her voice has softened, and he lets out a long, quivering breath, trying to compose himself before speaking. 

“Erik is perfectly fine.” 

It is a lie, and she surely knows it. He sits down on the piano bench, ceasing to care if she sees him like this. Nothing can compare to the humiliation of having his face bare, seeing his muse realize that if he was any kind of angel, he was a fallen one, thrown from the heavens for his distorted face and twisted soul. It is only his voice she could ever love, and now she must hate that, too, as he does. 

“It doesn’t seem like he is,” she says, her words almost mocking but with a tone that could be mistaken for genuine concern edging into her voice. “You’re allowed to talk to me, you know. For heaven’s sake, we spend almost the entirety of our lives in the same building.”

He doesn’t want to tell her. He doesn’t want to tell anyone. But if feels, suddenly, like if he tells no one, then he’ll have to start speaking to the walls, to himself, and then all of those things will hate him too, even though he created them. His own creations turned against him. Just like… 

“Christine,” he says quietly. It is more than she needs to know, more than he should have said. It feels like blasphemy to hear her name on such unworthy lips as his own. 

“And what happened with Christine?” she pries, like she is speaking to a small child, an unruly child, an unwanted and troublesome child. He doesn’t respond, he doesn’t have the words. “She’s my friend, Erik. If you won’t talk to me, I’ll just go ask her.”

No! Meg will think he is a monster, if he lets Christine tell her. He  _ is _ a monster, of course, but it is not his fault, this time. He had been doing what Meg had told him, and while he was correcting a few notes on his score, she had appeared behind him with a stealth he didn’t realize she possessed until it was too late. Far too late. 

Carefully, knowing his voice will betray him, he lifts a wretched hand to the right side of his face, one finger barely skimming the surface of the mask before dropping into his lap, where it sits, defeated by the effort. He hears her suck in a breath. 

“You…” He shakes his vile head, trying to will away the tears that want to slip out of his half-closed eyes.

“She brought this upon herself.” 

“She tried to…”

“She did not just  _ try _ , Miss Giry,” he spits back. “She succeeded, quite well. And it can be certain she did not enjoy what she saw.” He chuckled, in spite of himself, hating his own words even before they left his lips. “If there is one thing that all the angels and demons of this opera house agree on, it is the hideousness of Erik’s face.”

There are moments, ones like these, where she pities him, deeply. Every day, she herself spreads rumors of his ugliness, without having any way of knowing which are truth and which are fiction. She never apologizes to him. It is simply the way things are, simply another role she plays, to protect both of them. Apologies do not come easily to either of them. 

His words hurt more than they should, in fact, they shouldn’t hurt at all, because she hates him, they hate each other. She shouldn’t care how he feels. Maybe they were friends, once, but that feels like forever ago, on a road they have both chosen to abandon. 

It is an interruption of their normal patterns, this conversation, this sharing of pain. Christine probably doesn’t realize how much she has hurt him, she thinks, she would never even consider apologizing to him, in her mind, there’s probably nothing to apologize for. And the same for Erik, she knows. His biggest flaw is his fear of admitting he has any. 

It is an overstep, she knows, to attempt to sit down beside him on the piano bench, and so she is not surprised when he stands quickly and moves to sit at the table, back again to her, his hand noticeably moving to his more exposed cheek, brushing at what could’ve been tears. 

“You may want to apologize,” she tries, knowing it is about as useful as speaking to a brick wall, and he is just about as likely to heed her advice. 

“She is the one who should apologize,” he retorts, proving her correct. “Besides, Erik has given her the lead role in the next opera. That should be apology enough.” 

She’s not going to break that news to him, she decides, he’ll find out soon enough. And there’s no doubt that he won’t be happy about it. He probably already knows, she thinks, she’s not so naive as to think that he’s not listening to everything that goes on, all over the opera house. She learned that lesson early. 

But, instead of confronting him on any of it, she gets up from the piano bench and sits across from him at the table, watching him fight his instincts to flee to another part of the room. 

Instead, he visibly grits his teeth and says, “You may stop this foolishness, Miss Giry. Of all things, Erik does not want your pity.” 

“That’s not what I’m offering.” He narrows his eyes, and she sees what might be remnants of those same self-forbidden tears in the edges, slipping through his cool facade. She sighs. Subtlety is lost on this man.  _ I’m trying to help you _ , she wants to yell at him.  _ That’s what I’ve been trying to do, ever since the beginning. _

“Would you like me to talk to Christine?” she asks, hoping he’ll take the hand she’s mentally trying to extend to him, instead of slapping it away. 

“Erik cannot control whom you talk to,” he replies, ignoring her, but she doesn’t draw it back, not yet. 

“Would you like me to  _ tell _ her anything?”

“Erik can tell her anything she needs to hear,” he says simply. “This is strictly between angels, Miss Giry, however grateful Erik may be for your concern.” He doesn’t sound grateful, of course.

She scoffs, giving up. “So you’re an angel now? And what would that make me?” The retort slips out before she can think to contain it, but to her surprise, he merely shrugs as if her words are meaningless, slipping off of his cold armor like rain down a window. 

“You are Meg,” he replies, looking directly into her eyes. 

Later, as she remembers their conversation, she’ll wonder why in the world his simple answer surprised her as much as it did, and she’ll find herself fighting the urge to want to hear her name, not Miss Giry, not Little Giry, but her real name, on his lips just one more time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww look at these guys and their awful communication issues… I hope you’re liking it so far!! Comments are very much appreciated :))
> 
> A


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter took forever and is, like, really long? I really just had to bulldoze through the end of act 1 so I could get to the fun stuff :) But, I’ve changed pretty much everything about my original idea and planned out the rest of the chapters (as usual it’s twice as long as I expected it to be oops), so it should be smoother sailing from here! Apologies in advance for the pretty much constant angst in this chapter. And you may have noticed a lot of the tags have changed 👀Big thanks to ofserien for looking over this!!
> 
> TWs: short fight scene involving a knife, murder, strangulation, hallucinations, these are reasonably tame but if you’re uncomfy with Buquet getting killed in a canon fashion then proceed with caution, brief suicidal thoughts
> 
> Music: The Good Side by Troye Sivan (I really recommend this song :) ), Ativan by Sufjan Stevens
> 
> Enjoy!

“All is as it should be.”

Erik’s words echo in her mind as she finishes pinning her hair into place, her stomach tying itself into knots as she worries. He has been abnormally silent in the last weeks as rehearsals continued, and then finished, and opening night approached. No notes, no missing props or broken set pieces, nothing. The managers think it is a good sign.

She knows it is not. 

He hasn’t been home many of the times she’s visited, and she’s almost grateful. His strange home is calming when she’s alone there, it’s a space she often goes simply to think and block out whatever drama is going on five levels above her head. But he’s absent so often that she fears he’s planning something for the performance; in fact, she’s quite sure of it. 

The most surprising, and perhaps disconcerting, part of the evening is that no one seems worried in the least, save Christine, who hides it quite well. She wonders how many people do not fear Erik’s—rather, the “Phantom’s”—threats, and how many have simply forgotten them. She’s quite sure he won’t let the managers get away with this. Part of her wants to warn Carlotta, but another part of her knows it would be useless for many reasons. 

She tidies up her space in the crowded dressing room, listening to the chatter all around her, though it feels muted out of her nervousness. She is not particularly frightened as to the fact that something is going to happen, it unnerves her much more that she does not know what. His plans are usually fairly obvious, at least to her, but now… it is like he is lying in wait, preparing some awful surprise. 

The crowd in the grand hallway outside the theatre is thick as she weaves between knots of smiling people, looking for Christine, who is likely with the Vicomte de Changy. She can’t quite tell what their intentions are towards each other, but she suspects they will marry; she has seen the way Christine looks at him when his back is turned, has watched the vicomte’s face from his box as she sings. It is obvious to anyone around them that their love runs deep and strong, and she wonders, if not for Erik, if they would be married already. 

“Gentlemen,” she hears the distinctive voice of the vicomte say, “if you would care to take your seats, we’ll be sitting in box five.” 

“Do you really think that’s wise, Monsieur?” Andre’s voice now, moving away from her. If the vicomte is there, Christine is too, in all likelihood, she reasons, and begins weaving and sometimes shoving her way through the crowd towards their voices. 

“My dear Andre, there appear to be no seats available other than box five.” She catches a glimpse of the top of the vicomte’s hat before freezing where she stands, seeing her mother standing in front of them, her face stony, her small form as imposing as Meg has even seen it.

“I would advise rather highly against that, monsieurs.” 

Firmin laughs, and Meg feels her blood run cold. They are not merely walking into Erik’s trap, they are leaping into it from a great height, blindfolded and with their hands bound behind their backs. 

“And why is that, Madame Giry?” Firmin asks, his voice light and ignorant. “I would think you of all people should know we have nothing to fear from our dear friend. He has been absent nearly three weeks! But you know that, surely.” The managers and their two companions who are not the vicomte laugh, though she sees de Changy’s eyes narrow just the smallest amount. He is a fine gentleman, to be sure, but at turns too suspicious and too trusting, always in the wrong places and of the wrong people. 

“Of course, I know no more of the ghost than you do,” she says coldly, “but knowing what we do, I would tend to be more wary than you clearly think is wise. When the ghost is disobeyed, we have seen him tend to be far less… obedient.” Firmin laughs again, more loudly than before, and she sees several heads turn before returning to their own conversations. 

Christine isn’t here, Meg tells herself, and if she wishes to speak to her before the performance, she must leave her mother to her quarrel and return backstage. But she stays, shifting so she is slightly more hidden behind a pillar, because what she needs now is information on what Erik is planning. Information that, it seems, her mother might have. 

She has never quite understood the relationship between the two of them. Erik rarely mentions her mother, and when he does, it is all formality and flair. Her mother pretends he doesn’t exist, telling Meg off whenever she mentions him, making it awfully hard to discern whether her mother is truly a friend to him, or simply another tool. She wouldn’t be particularly surprised either way. 

“Monsieurs, you know that I have no power over you, no more than I do over our dear ghost. And even though I know nothing more than you do, I must stress that I do not think it wise for you to proceed with this evening as you have planned.” 

“As we have planned?” Firmin chuckles. “You surely don’t mean that we should turn down Carlotta and send that chorus girl, that… Daaé on instead? I won’t say she doesn’t have talent, but La Carlotta! The name itself packs a theater! You think the Opera Ghost would want his seats half-empty?” 

“He has made it very clear what he wants,” her mother responds, and it sends a shiver down her spine. “And he has made it very clear what he will do if he does not get what he wants.” None of them say anything, and de Changy clears his throat, looking almost nervous, an expression Meg thinks she had never seen on his face, but then it is gone and he has returned to his usual charming self. 

“Well then, gentlemen, I believe if we are to get settled before the performance starts, we should be going, should we not?”

“Splendid idea!” Andre responds, clearly happy to have been given an out to the situation. “We’ll follow you, Vicomte.” 

“You have been warned,” her mother says ominously, and then suddenly turns her head, so that Meg has to duck behind the pillar again, and walks quickly back towards her dressing room. 

No matter how much she wishes she could speak to her mother about Erik, she knows it would be fruitless. If she asks her anything now, she will be told off for eavesdropping, and if she tells her anything, she risks betraying Erik to someone he doesn’t trust. 

Betraying him is the last thing she wants.

Erik is still chuckling from the awful sound of Carlotta’s croaking voice as he makes his silent way through the rafters and into the series of catwalks that hide above the stage. It is only the first step in his plan, of course, but a brilliant one. La Carlotta, brought to shame! He cannot wait for the headlines. 

It is surprising to him that the little Giry hasn’t decided to inform anyone of his plans for the evening, but it isn’t likely that anyone would actually listen to the young girl. Of course, even she has no knowledge of his range of ideas for the rest of the performance, but he will stay within her unspoken rules, no one will be hurt, not really, and he won’t go anywhere near his angel. She probably wouldn’t even allow him close, now. After the disaster that was his awful face. It is his own fault, of course, always his own, the world has made that far too clear. 

He can make out a shape at the end of the catwalk, backlit, moving slowly. Buquet. What is he doing here? The man is a nuisance, an utter nuisance, always at his post. The man is truly a hard worker, but, as the chief stagehand, it is only natural that he be blamed for the disturbances Erik causes. He is rarely away from his work, and whenever he is, bad things happen. It is clear that Buquet has learned this. His newfound attentiveness is deeply annoying. 

His nail makes a biting, grating sound as he drags it along the cold metal railing with harsh intention, and the man turns around, surely unable to make out anything in the dim light. He will scare him away, yes, that is what he will do, simply frighten the stagehand until he leaves, and then the night can proceed. He takes a step forward, silent as the ghost he is pretending to be.

“Stay back,” the man says gruffly, backing away, visibly reaching into his back pocket. “Don’t come any closer.” He must think Erik wishes to hurt him. Ha! Is the opera ghost so terrifying that this man would fear for his life in his presence? 

He takes another step, amused by the useless terror that blossoms in the man’s blue eyes. He drags another nail along the railing, gently flicking his finger off of the edge, hoping to indicate that he only means to cause a disturbance and means the man no harm, if he leaves. He must leave. Suspense is ruined by too much dull filler time. And time is passing. Some of the audience, surely, is already forgetting his unspoken threats. 

“No,” Buquet says, settling his hand firmly on the rail, directly where Erik needs to move. “One more of your ‘mistakes’ and they’ll fire me,” he continues, his voice low and measured so that no one below can make out what is happening right about their heads. “If I am fired, it will be over for me. For all of us. We will all be doomed.” 

He doesn’t have time for this man. This needs to happen now, quickly, just a simple backdrop failure to add onto Carlotta’s horrific croaking. There are large events in store for the evening, but they must start small, and the finale must be at the same time obvious and surprising. He has seen enough operas in his time to know this. Inevitable and yet still tragic. All of the best stories were. 

He glowers at the stagehand. Perhaps he will simply step aside, perhaps he will realize that there are larger things at stake than his position. He is of no significance in this game Erik plays. 

That is, until the hand in his back pocket reappears, now gripping a knife. 

If she did not know what she was looking for, Meg thinks, there is no way that she would notice Erik’s dark form standing somewhere above her. She tries to stay focused, on her legs, her arms, the motions she must execute with perfect precision, but she will be the first to admit that she is quite shaken. First, by his sabotage, and secondly, because she knows that taking down Carlotta is likely the first small event in a long agenda. It is the kind of saboteur Erik is, he is not likely to stop after something so small, so simple. Though she doubts it was simple for Erik, and she doubts it was small for Carlotta. But a change in leading lady will not halt a production, she knows, and she highly doubts, from the nature of his threats and the length of his absence, that this is all he holds in store for them.

His presence above her all but confirms that. It is the main catwalk, Meg knows, it is one of three locations where Buquet usually stays, he is either there or somewhere on either side of the stage. 

And it is where he failed to be the last time something like this happened. 

She is vaguely aware of his motion across the catwalk as the dancers move in a large circle around the stage, the rest of them focused on nothing but the performance, all blissfully ignorant, as is the audience, from which Erik is hidden. The circling pace quickens, and when she is near the back of the stage, she allows herself a single glance upward. 

Erik isn’t alone. 

It is not a very large knife, only a few inches long, but the blade is warped slightly, almost twisted. It is small, deadly. 

“You have threatened her life before,” Buquet whispers, holding the blade in front of him with trembling fingers.  _ Her _ ? Who on earth is this  _ her _ ? What is this imbecile of a man playing at? “Her mother is in poor health,” he says, desperation and truth filling his damning words. “I will not leave her orphaned on the streets, I will not allow you to keep her father from the only income keeping her alive. Both of them. You would not harm such innocents.” The fear is palpable in his eyes, and there is no wedding ring upon his left hand as it clutches desperately around the knife; an unmarried father, then. 

But there are larger things at play here, there is more to lose than a job, besides, Paris is filled with jobs! This must be done, his power over the opera must be absolute, he cannot let this one man stand between him and the disaster that must befall them tonight if he is ever to be respected within these walls. 

The man trembles even more as Erik draws closer, unblinking, and then, as soon as he is within arm’s length, he hears a whisper that sounds like “Marie, forgive me,” and the stagehand is moving, flying towards him, and it is all Erik can do to fall out of the knife’s path, clearly aimed for his throat. He touches a hand to his neck, almost stunned, half amused. He did not think the man had such courage within him as to violently attack a ghost! 

“Stop your vile laughter,” the man whispers, his eyes akin to those of a rabbit staring into the face of a wolf. The man is clearly deaf to humor. 

As the stagehand attacks again, he throws himself to the side, narrowly avoiding the blade, and there is a hand reaching into his coat, the fingers gently feeling the length of red rope tucked there, just in case. Using it would be a terrible crime, this man has a daughter, it seems, it would not be right, it would not be—

A searing pain splits through his right arm as the blade finds its mark, and then, within seconds, without even thinking, the man is at his mercy, rope around his neck, and there is a whisper of what is clearly a name, as if a plea, and then he is gone, over the railing, a disaster, a disaster beyond even his own imagination. 

When Meg hears the laughter, her first impulse is to look up and towards box five, where, predictably, the managers are exchanging glances, and the vicomte’s perfect, calm facade is breaking down slowly but surely. She almost understands Erik’s motives in this; it is certainly amusing to watch them become so unsettled. And then, as suddenly as it has started, it stops, and there is a desperate quickness above her and she watches as the girls around her begin to break formation slightly, begin to glance upwards, begin to realize. 

She looks to her mother in the wings, expecting her to be glaring, tapping her cane at them, but her mother is also staring, transfixed, at the fight above them. The audience is visibly growing restless, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of whatever is happening. 

And then she, too, stops and looks up, a second too late. 

The world severs around her, cleaving itself into two parts, or maybe a thousand, as time slows enough for her to visibly see Joseph Buquet’s neck snap as he hits the end of the smooth, red rope and bounces back for a slight second, suspended as if in slow motion before falling still as everything else falls to chaos. Someone screams. Someone else does, too, and she realizes the second person is her as she rips her gaze from his purpling face, undeniably dead, to look anywhere else, at anyone else, and the first thing her gaze lands on is Erik, huddled in the catwalk, staring back at her. 

And then he disappears, the spell breaks, she is running, running, she needs to get away from here, from him, needs to go back, to unsee. 

She is running to the roof. Her legs take her there automatically as her mind races in every direction, finding the same image in every place, the same half-second on repeat over and over and over. 

She never wants to see Erik again. 

In a release of tension, his knees hit the grated catwalk, and a fist grips his heart, injecting him with more of that pure, awful instinct, born from a lifetime of needing to fight when attacked, needing to protect his own worthless life. The man’s last word echoes over and over again on his tongue, seeping into his brain, invading the very being of his soul—

And then there is the first scream, followed by another, this one, more familiar, as he sees the little Giry among the clamor of bodies, her eyes catching his, catching him, and she knows, she knows everything. She will not let him get away with this, she has promised, he remembers, and then he is fleeing, and there are a thousand footsteps behind him, the little Giry, Buquet's ghost, the ghosts of all those that fell before him. He is almost tripping over the mass of bodies by the time he reaches the roof, air falling into his awful throat and clawing its way out again. The statue holds him upright in its frozen, stone arms. 

It is not long before there are voices, two of them, both familiar, and tears want to escape from his treacherous eyes. The foolish boy is not allowed to be here, not now, not like this. Not with her. 

“He’ll kill me,” the angel’s voice whispers, and the statue forces him out of its chilling embrace as it learns what he’s done, denying him even that cold comfort as his body slumps down to rest on its feet, his voice wanting to protest, wanting to emerge and beg forgiveness. His angel will never encounter harm by his hands, but neither will anyone, Erik will hurt no one, he has never hurt anyone. His head buries itself in between his knees as his ears beg him not to hear, not to understand any more of their beautiful, comforting words that will never be said to him. 

His hands want to rip the mask from his face and hurl it out over Paris, rid him of that awful person he is, his soul, disgusted, wants to pull away from his body and leave it there on that roof for someone else to inhabit, someone else who can deal with the consequences in his stead. 

_ Christine _ , his mind begs, and as his treacherous voice repeats the world aloud, he hates the way it sounds on his tongue. It is the voice of a monster. 

The lip of the roof is quite close, his eyes notice, he is as good as dead, the authorities will want his head, Meg will never forgive him, she will leave him, kill him, the two are one and the same, and the world contracts slightly so that his eyes are staring downward from the roof and his legs pull him back at the sight of the gruesome gargoyles sitting below him. He doesn’t want them getting ideas and falling of their own volition. The statue continues its chilling rejection as his knees crawl back over, his spine curling around the missing space where love would go. 

Her lungs gasp for air as she emerges onto the tilting roof, her feet unable to find their balance, her stomach threatening to betray her as she lurches forward onto her knees, hands dully hitting the gravelly roof. She shouldn’t be here, she should be back down there, but Christine is gone, Erik is gone, surely they are together, and she knows that, if it he really has taken her again, she must rescue her friend. But the thought of facing Erik is too much. Was this his plan? His foretold disaster? To murder a man in cold blood?

Her mind is reviled by the thought, because Erik couldn’t, he wouldn’t dare, he is not a kind man but even he would not go this far, but everything is wrong because he has, he  _ has _ , and Buquet, of all people—

The awful, rational part of her brain knows that it had to be him, by killing him Erik proves his existence, his dominance, but it is too cruel, too calculating, it is proof of the existence of the man she has long feared he would become. 

Wrenching her gaze from the ground, she realizes quickly that she is not the only one to seek solace in the fresh air, the view of the city. Her breath releases when she sees Christine standing with another figure at a distance, speaking softly, the vicomte, she thinks, thank heaven. 

Her unsteady feet take her over to the far side of the roof, where she won’t be seen, the two of them deserve this moment alone, at least. The great winged statue looms there, its judgemental eyes glowering over the city, its arms outstretched as if waiting for something, or letting something go. It has been there her whole life, but she has never really looked at it. 

She doesn’t even think to look at the base of the statue before it is too late, and then she is standing over Erik’s bent form, huddled in on himself, and her hand flies to her mouth to prevent herself from screaming outright. He shouldn’t be here. But neither should she. Christine and the Vicomte could see her here, she realizes, it is a miracle that they haven’t, and she ducks down behind the statue, trying to keep as much space between the two of them as possible while still staying hidden. 

And then, without looking at her, without acknowledging her, he starts whispering something, over and over again, and she covers her mouth again, trying not to let audible sobs escape. 

His ears can hear them speaking, speaking, so softly and yet the words echo around the narrow chamber of his mind, over and over again, multiplied into a cacophony of anger and longing. 

Footsteps, drawing nearer, unsteady, limping. Ghostly, his mind tells him, and he buries his eyes further in himself, not wanting to see, not ready, not ready for this new ghost that looms over him. Erik did not mean for this to happen! his mouth wants to yell, It was all an accident! But it wasn’t, it wasn’t, not in anyone’s eyes but his own. 

“Erik is sorry,” his voice whispers, needing the ghost to go away. “He is sorry, so sorry, so sorry…” his mouth finds some rhythm there and continues, though the sound drains away like trust through the grimy grate of oblivion. 

It sounds like the ghost is crying. An awful sound. He hates the people who cry the most. The screaming has become tolerable, after so many years, the muttering, the looking down, away, anywhere. But the crying still hurts. Are they crying for him, or for their own eyes and minds, now scarred as much as his awful face? 

His limbs pull him, scrambling, up the statue, away from this awful, crying ghost, his eyes take in the sight, the city so small, the fall so great. Christine and her vicomte, below him. 

No. 

He does not wish to see this, he does not wish to know the truth of these matters, his eyes hate him for seeing it, he hates his eyes for the same. 

This cannot be how it ends. 

And then, impossibly, his eyes perceive the little Giry running, too, just behind them. She is here. What is she doing here? And they are gone, leaving him with the ghost. 

But, somehow, the ghost is gone too. 

Erik doesn’t look at her as he climbs the statue, spider-like, frightening. Christine has gone inside, Raoul is following her, the performance is going to begin again and she needs to move, she needs to leave, but she is so afraid for him. 

She is afraid for him, but terrified of him at the same time. The memory of his words runs over her, and she shudders as she stands. Who did he think he was talking to? Buquet? Someone else entirely? 

“Meg Giry!” a voice calls, and she cannot stay, she will reveal him—doesn’t she want to reveal him? Bring this murderer to justice?—and so she runs from behind the statue, making for the door on the far side of the roof, keeping the vicomte away from Erik’s hiding place. It is instinct, an instinct born from years of covering for his mistakes, years of weaving stories that hide him from day’s burning light. She hates that she cannot give him away now; one word from her would end this relentless campaign of violence, one word and Christine and her vicomte would be safe forever, the opera house’s main trouble would come to a quick end.

But in doing so, she would hurt him. She doesn’t know why, but she cannot hurt him. 

Slipping through the door, she hears the Vicomte de Changy running after her, calling her name. Her costume hinders her, getting stuck on the hinges of the second door she runs through, and she falls, just barely catching herself. Her ankle hurts, but the pain is dulled by terror. Of everything. Was this how Buquet felt? she catches herself wondering, and the thought makes her want to cry, or scream, she isn’t sure which. 

“Meg Giry!” his shoes come to a stop in front of her, and he reaches down a hand to help her, grabbing her wrist and helping her to her feet. “Are you alright?” She doesn’t respond, and once she is sturdy again, he doesn’t let go. Her mind races. What is he thinking? How much does he know?

“Monsieur, I need to go, I must—”

“You’ve seen him, haven’t you?” His voice is accusatory, edged with terror. “You know where he is.”

“I don’t,” she insists, trying and failing to yank her wrist from his grasp. 

“You know more than you’re telling,” he says sharply. “You know more than any of us, don’t you?” She shakes her head, the image of Buquet’s body flying through her mind over and over again, until she can’t help but make the awful, purple face into Raoul’s, seeing so clearly how simple, how easy it would be for Erik to—

“I know nothing, Monsieur le Vicomte,” she stammers, her voice betraying her, her body shaking. “If you want answers, you’ll have to ask the Phantom himself!” She pulls her wrist from his hand, running down the stairs as quickly as she can in her costume, daring to allow herself one last glance upward towards the vicomte’s startled face, and she thinks she sees something deep and human in his eyes in that fleeting glance, she sees a deep terror, a looming fear. Not for his own life, she realizes, but for Christine. 

They need to go far away from here, she knows, they will never be safe for as long as they live if Erik is allowed to keep terrorizing them, all of them. 

He will never terrorize Buquet again, she thinks, and the thought comes so quickly and so startlingly that she feels tears start to form in her eyes and is forced to push down the memory of his face one more time, but she can’t, and it seems like there are a thousand Buquets hanging all around her as she rushes into the wings, trying to make her face strong for the other girls to see. But it isn’t working, the world is a curtain of smooth, red, rope, and that is all she can see as she dances, her ankle still throbbing lightly, her body going through tearstained motions, every beat of the music sounding like the sickening crack of his neck. 

Betrayal. That is the only word his mind can form as he watches his angel run from the roof, watches her disappear back to the stage, back to her home, the opera, for no one could truly survive so long in heaven… 

Hours pass on the roof, though they might be seconds, and all he can hear is Christine’s voice, all he can see is her face, beaming, happy, looking at anything but him. But the evening isn’t over. Oh, it is far from over, now!

There is a plan, there is a plan, many weights and counterweights, to let the grand chandelier fall as far as it can without touching the audience, the stage, to let them beg for mercy, let them pretend that they have given themselves salvation by submitting to his demands. Terrified, but unharmed, that is the plan, that is what he wanted, dead men couldn’t apologize or change, dead men wouldn’t love him. That was the plan. 

Now, his heart doesn’t care who loves him. There is a knife in his pocket, baby teeth against the regretful meat of the rope, but he will succeed, he always wins, in the end. Dead men have nothing to lose. 

He doesn’t remember getting there, but then the small knife is biting through the last thread, and there is a moment of silence before the walls begin to groan with unease, and he slips into the walls, before the aftermath and regret can find him hidden in the wings. 

If he doesn’t hear Christine sing, no one will. 

Somehow, miraculously, everyone survives through the last act of the opera, but her eyes still refuse to focus on anything and her throat feels constantly tight, as if someone had their fingers wrapped around it. She is in denial, she knows, and she is terrified of going to sleep tonight, of the things she will see, hear. 

She hasn’t spoken with Christine, there wasn’t time, but her friend seems, somehow, unaffected, she looks radiant, in fact. Meg cannot tell how much of it is real and how much is a mask, but she sees the glances she sends up to Raoul’s box, she sees his face as he smiles down at her. 

Impossibly, she finds herself feeling jealous; she should’ve been the one comforting Christine, they are supposed to be there for each other, through thick and thin, they are best friends, after all. Her mind is trapped within walls of wishing, despair, anger at Erik, for all of this, fear for him, fear of him, she doesn't know how she feels or how she should feel. 

Instead, she keeps dancing, looking down, trying to avoid the bodies. 

And then, finally, it is over, the curtain call comes, the audience is cheering as if a man weren’t dead, she takes her bow with the others, numb, and watches as Christine comes gracefully forward, accepting the cheers of the crowd. 

The light changes. Someone whispers. A few of the cheers in the audience turn to screams as someone sees, and then everyone sees, and people are scattering, running for their lives as the grand chandelier begins to fall, in slow motion, towards the front of the stage. 

Adrenaline moves her feet as she watches the orchestra scrambling backward, leaving their instruments, the conductor clambering out of the pit and into the mass of people who all, suddenly, wear Buquet’s face. 

“Christine!” she yells, seeing the soprano still on the stage, staring upward as the chandelier soars lower and lower, and she finds herself running forward, grabbing her hand, hauling her away not a moment too soon. The world collapses, there is only the stumbling of her feet, the sound of their breath, the feeling of the shaking, gentle hand in her own as they almost fall into the wings, away from the disaster, the disaster beyond their imagination. 

Christine’s face, terrified and beautiful, is the last thing she sees before the light shatters around them, plunging the entire opera house into blackness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so many questions about this scene in the musical, like, why is the audience still there? Does this normally happen at operas they go to?? Also, I feel like it’s very important to let everyone know that Buquet actually has his own wikipedia page, and I just really love that… anyway… thanks for reading! Comments are much-loved! And I promise you’ll get some fluff next chapter :) 
> 
> A


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